


Hví er ég einn

by versti_fantur



Category: LazyTown
Genre: M/M, Plague Doctor AU, glanni is an... apothecary...., no spoilers tho, the boys are still from iceland though, vaguely set in 1600s england, Íþró is a plague doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26429581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versti_fantur/pseuds/versti_fantur
Summary: Doctor Íþróttaálfurinn is called to a town afflicted with the plague, but finds everything is much stranger than it seems. Including the town’s reclusive apothecary, who may or may not be hiding dark secrets.
Relationships: Glanni Glæpur/Íþróttaálfurinn
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Hví er ég einn

**Author's Note:**

> So this has been sitting in my laptop for a month now, maybe its finally time to publish it lmao
> 
> Ive only 2 chapters written, and so after ch2, updates will be slow

Íþróttaálfurinn held his breath as he pushed open the heavy wooden door. It was instinctive, really. The herbs in his mask would protect him from the miasma of disease, but it didn’t stop the cloying heat and feeling of death in the room from quickening his pulse and making bile rise in his throat. Whoever the poor soul was, he doubted he’d be able to save them. He’d arrived too late for that. He tried his best though: bloodletting to relieve the heat, followed by a cooling salve to balance out the humours. As he applied the balm, the child gazed up at him, her eyes wide and glassy as her hair fanned out behind her in blonde tangles against the pillow. He knew she wouldn’t last the night.

As soon as he left, the sharp sounds of wailing echoed out into the empty street, and his chest ached for them and their impending loss. With the amount of death he’d seen, he wasn’t sure why it still affected him so deeply. Maybe it was because the child was so young, so innocent. She didn’t deserve this fate. But the Lord, it seemed, showed no mercy for whom he struck down.

His long black robes trailed along the ground as he walked, the dirt clinging to the hem from the dust his boots kicked up. His cane bobbing up and down in his hand as he strode along, and he pulled his hat down lower as the first spots of rain began to fall, thick and heavy against his cloak. But he didn’t hurry. The mayor’s wife had found him lodgings nearby, but he wanted to get his bearings of the town before heading there for the night. Or, at least this side of town, since it was larger than the mayor’s letters had led him to believe. If the plague was affecting the citizens as badly as he’d implied, well, Íþróttaálfurinn would have his work cut out.

The streets were mostly empty, save for a child on the corner, clutching a basket of flowers tightly as the rain plastered her cotton cap to her forehead, the hem of her dress ripped and torn.

“Do you want to buy a posy sir? Keep away the ills?” She called out to him, taking up a bunch of flowers and waving them to entice him over. Íþróttaálfurinn half smiled to himself, the deep purples and reds contrasting the dreary greys and browns of the rest of his surroundings.

“How much for a nosegay?” He asked, tucking his cane under his arm and reaching for his coin purse as he approached, untying it from his belt. Confusion flickered across the girl’s face momentarily at his accent, and Íþróttaálfurinn internally sighed—most folks tended to be wary of foreigners at the best of times, and at the worst, well he didn’t like to dwell on that. Some people especially didn’t want him as their doctor; he hoped this town would be a little more accepting than others. But the girl quickly smiled again, accepting the couple of coins he held out to her.

“We haven’t had a doctor here in a while,” she said, tying a string around a small bunch of flowers, “only the apothecary, but he’s scary.” She laughed as she passed the flowers to him, dropping the coins into the pocket of her patched up skirt.

“Apothecary?” He asked, the mayor hadn’t mentioned one of those. She nodded, pointing out of the town onto the moors, where the dusty streets faded out into rabbit trails, and a tumbledown cottage stood out, dark against the grey horizon. He hadn’t noticed it before, and had she not mentioned it, he doubted he would have anyway.

“People only go out there if something is really bad,” she said with a much lighter tone than her sentiment indicated, and Íþróttaálfurinn frowned, biting his lip thoughtfully.

“I’ll have to speak with him soon then,” he replied after a moment, tucking the flowers carefully into his pocket. “Thank you for the posy, um-”

“Beatrice, but you can call me Trixie,” she supplied.

“Well thank you Trixie.” He tipped his hat as he walked away, and she giggled, waving enthusiastically. Íþróttaálfurinn smiled to himself, if the other residents of the town were as welcoming as she had been, then he might actually be able to work properly for once.

The sky above had slowly darkened, the clouds fading from grey to almost black, and he discarded his idea of exploring the town. He could do that in the morning. Reaching into his cloak, he pulled out the letter the mayor had written him, scanning over the scrawled writing quickly to find the address. The glass eye-windows in his mask had started to steam up as the rain fell heavier, dripping down his neck uncomfortably. He moved to undo the buckles at the back, so as to remove the mask, but as he passed more and more doorways painted with thick red crosses, he decided against it, lowering his arms again and squinting at street names as he passed them. Thankfully, the lodgings weren’t too far away, and he found them with relative ease. As he knocked briskly on the door (thankfully free of any plague markings), a short woman opened it, her red dress and jewellery indicating that she was one of the town’s wealthier residents.

“Oh! I was wondering when you were finally going to arrive!” She ushered him inside, leading him into a modest kitchen and indicating he should sit down at the old wooden table, where a cup of beer and a plate of simple food had been laid out for him. “You can call me Bessie. Milford didn’t tell me much about you, only that you’re a doctor and that’s… rather obvious,” she laughed shrilly as he undid his mask, and took off his hat, setting them both onto the table beside him and taking a sip of the beer. It was watered down, but he drank anyway.

“Well, my name is Íþróttaálfurinn Álfursson,” he paused as she halted in her bustling about the kitchen, turning to face him.

“Ee-throw- uh-” she stumbled over the pronunciation, but Íþróttaálfurinn shook his head.

“Don’t worry, Doctor Álfursson, or just Doctor will do,” he reassured her, slicing a little cheese for the bread on his plate. “And before you ask, yes, I come from the northern countries.”

“Oh we don’t get many of your sort around here,” she said, “But either way, your room is on the second floor—the first door on the left, you can’t miss it! My room is on the first floor, but don’t you go getting any ideas, I am _engaged_ —” Íþróttaálfurinn choked on his drink “—and I’ll take you to the Mayor’s office first thing tomorrow. And the north? Mr Glæpur hails from around there, doesn’t he?”

“Who?” Íþróttaálfurinn said, once he’d regained the ability to breathe again.

“Oh, of course you don’t know him, how silly of me! He’s the local apothecary. I suppose Milford will want you to meet him at some point-” she chattered on, and though he tried his best to keep up, she never seemed to slow down or even pause for breath, so he turned back to his bread and cheese, his mind wandering to the mysterious Mr Glæpur. “-But I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you now, I’m meeting Mrs Jones at the tavern!” She pinned her cap to her head as she spoke, hurrying out of the room and pulling a plaid shawl tightly around her, the door slamming loudly behind her and leaving the house oddly quiet.

Finishing his meal, Íþróttaálfurinn rinsed his plate and tankard in the bucket of water Bessie had left by the door, setting them back on the table to dry. He picked his bag and his mask up off the ground, flicking his hat back up onto his head and went in search of the staircase, jumping up the creaky wooden boards two at a time until he reached the second floor. There were only two doors, one on either side, but took only the left.

It opened into a fairly small room, the ceiling slanting down on one side where the roof started, and thick wooden beams overhead. Thankfully he was short enough he wouldn’t have to worry about hitting his head on them. The small window opened outwards, letting in a cool evening draft as well as dampening the floor from the rain, and he quickly shut it, drawing the curtain across—the once-rich red faded to a soft pink from years of being in the sunlight.

The room now falling into relative darkness, he undressed, hanging his coat and hat on the back of the door and pulling his boots off. Eventually, dressed only in his undershirt, he slid into bed, the lumpy horsehair mattress and thin blanket barely managing to stave off the evening chill. He reflected on the afternoon’s events; he hadn’t meant to visit any patients today, but the family had been so desperate for help he couldn’t refuse. If people were that badly affected already, he might have arrived too late; this plague was deadly for the old and young alike, more so than the previous epidemics, and this town was set to be the worst he’d visited yet. In the distance, the church bell chimed in the silent air, and it was with a heavy heart he closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> love yall, hope you enjoy! title from aleinn um jólin ^-^
> 
> comments and kudos make my heart happy <3


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